


A Battle Of Wills, Or: What Draco Will Do For Sausages.

by la_rubinita



Series: The Things I'll Do For You [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, D/Hr, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, dramione - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 14:58:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12684195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_rubinita/pseuds/la_rubinita
Summary: In which Draco receives a Christmas jumper, and Hermione pulls out the big guns.





	A Battle Of Wills, Or: What Draco Will Do For Sausages.

**Author's Note:**

> I was so flattered to be invited to this. Thank you misdemeanor1331 for the nomination! I've not really been in the fandom very much lately, but I had so much fun going back to these two. My prompt was _naughty or nice_ , and the idea of Hermione singing carols would not die. Hope y'all enjoy!

The scent of frying sausages is tantalizing as Draco shuffles into the kitchen.  Ordinarily he’d be up and dressed at this hour, but an early holiday dinner at the Manor the night before was exhausting, and it’s Christmas Eve so he really just can’t be bothered.  

Hermione doesn’t cook often.  Their days are hectic, their jobs demanding; they’re lucky if they get to share a plate of takeaway before passing out on the sofa.  Draco himself has been banned from even attempting anything more complex than tea and toast.  But this, a cozy lie-in and a fry-up to prepare him for spending the next day and a half with Potter and the entire Weasley clan?  This is tradition,  _ their tradition. _

Leaning lazily against the threshold with a smile curling his lips, Draco watches her in silence as she dances along to the music at the stove.  No amount of time in the Wizarding world has squashed Hermione’s love of Muggle carols.  Draco now knows more of them off by heart than he’d ever admit.

She’s wearing a pair of his pajama bottoms, the extra length pooling comically around her feet, her hair twisted into a messy knot atop her head, her wand jutting out of it.  She looks so happy and comfortable and  _ at home _ it makes Draco’s heart warm.  The jumper’s new, though.  A garish royal blue affair, obviously handmade. 

Molly Weasley strikes again.

_ “He’s making a list, checking it twice—” _

“Good morning,” Draco says, easing up behind her.  He rests his hands on her hips, plants soft kisses along the exposed skin of her neck.

“Sleepy head.” Hermione hums and leans back against him as she pushes the sausages about the skillet with a spatula. 

“You know that’s the worst carol in the history of carols?”

_ “Gonna find out who’s naughty or nice—”  _ she sings, swatting at him with the spatula.

Draco chuckles, stepping aside to pour two cups of coffee.  “New jumper?”  

“Can’t get anything past you.  Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Draco lies.  “Lovely color.”  It makes his eyes sting.

“That’s wonderful Draco, because she sent you one, too.  The owl came this morning.  It’s on the table.”

Draco’s stomach swoops alarmingly.  What?  _ No no no no no. _

Feigning nonchalance, he crosses to the little kitchen table to investigate.  Sure enough, wrapped in brown butcher’s paper, is a dark green jumper with a white Christmas tree.  He holds it up to better inspect the atrocity, the blood slowly draining from his face.  His eyes must be as wide as saucers because they’re beginning to dry and when Hermione speaks, there’s a decided hint of amusement in her tone.

“At least it’s green.”

“A genuine silver lining, indeed.”

“And the tree is nice.”  Draco casts her a glare.  She’s turned to face him, and he can see now that hers is decorated by a white snowflake.  “When we were kids we just got our initials.  Her colorwork is improving.”

“It shows.”

“It’ll look smashing with those jeans I got you last year,” she adds, ignoring his vinegar.

“No.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asks sweetly.  The little minx; like she doesn’t know.

“It’s ghastly, and I’m not wearing it.”

“Of course you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Draco—”

“Hermione—”

Hermione literally puts her foot down, causing the glasses in the cupboard to clink, and plants her hands on hips.  “Five years we’ve been together, and it’s the first jumper she’s ever knitted for you.  It’s the price of admission, made with love, and you will not offend her by refusing to wear it.”

“I’d rather go in a paper sack.”

Soft brown eyes narrow into a conniving glare, and Draco feels the first stirrings of disquiet.  She may have been sorted into Gryffindor, but Hermione could scheme with the best of them.  

Then she whistles sharply, one loud, clear note, and Crookshanks appears.  The cat’s about eighty years old and spoiled rotten, and not the least bit surprised when Hermione gingerly picks a sausage link out of the skillet and drops it on the floor.  It’s obviously hot, but the cat gobbles it up.

Draco gasps.  It’s a travesty, wasting sausages like that.   _ His _ sausages.   _ “What are you doing?” _

Crookshanks looks back at him and licks his chops.  Smugly.  Hermione’s looking pretty pleased by herself, too, damn her.  

“Won’t you reconsider?”

“I’m not wearing it.”

She drops another sausage, taking care to maintain eye contact as she sucks the grease from her fingers.  “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Draco says, swallowing thickly.  This is bad.  He has no leverage, no high ground.  She’s holding all the cards and she knows it, but the cost of retreat is high.  His skin itches just thinking about putting on that hideous thing.  

Another sausage.  Doesn’t even hesitate.  Draco squeaks.  His poor, poor sausages.

“Don’t you dare.”

Hermione arches an eyebrow and drops another sausage.

“Oh, it’s on, Granger.  It. Is.  _ On.” _

Hermione squeals and takes off running when Draco springs into motion, sliding across the floor when she steps on the fabric of her pants.  She looks so silly scrambling into the living room, Draco almost stops to laugh.   _ Almost. _

He nearly trips over the cat but catches her easily, grabbing her around the waist and tackling her onto the sofa.  She shrieks again, her cry dissolving into laughter, then into a happy hum when he presses his lips to hers.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You owe me sausages.”

 

It’s starting to snow, and it smells bright and fresh and Hermione looks fantastically cheery.  Draco takes a deep, steadying breath as she raises her fist to knock on the door.  Not even extra sausages have prepared him for this.  She squeezes his hand in hers.

“Don’t be sullen, darling.  Your forehead will wrinkle.”

Like he needs one more thing to worry about.

The door swings open with an ominous creak.

“Oh, it’s Draco and Hermione,” Mrs Weasley calls.  She’s all fluttery and happy as she pulls both of them inside.  It’s warm and noisy and filled with the scent of baking and red-headed rugrats darting here and there.  

“Happy Christmas,” Hermione says, exchanging hugs and kisses.

Mrs Weasley grins at Draco before dragging him in for a crushing embrace.

Hermione pointedly meets his gaze over Mrs Weasley’s shoulder.  “Happy Christmas, Mrs Weasley,” he says, awkwardly patting her shoulder.  “Thanks for inviting me.”

“Of course, of course, dear.  The boys are in the living room playing chess,” she says, ushering Draco away from the kitchen and the safety of Hermione’s company.  His horrible, traitorous girlfriend has the nerve to wink as he walks away.  “Supper’ll be on in just a few minutes.”

He’ll never get used to this.  Not that he prefers the stark, vacant sterility of Malfoy Manor, but there’s just…  _ so much ginger. _

Draco wanders into the living room, with it’s familiar shabby furnishings and roaring fire.  He can admit it’s cozy, even if it’s inhabitants could hardly be considered stimulating company.  George is in the corner, teaching the only black-haired child in the house some sort of mischief, and they pay him no mind.  Arthur is dozing in the armchair nearest the fire, while the eldest two brothers argue over Quidditch on the sofa.

Potter and Weasley are really the only ones who notice his arrival, which is both a blessing and a curse.  They’ve learned to tolerate each other, for Hermione’s sake, but Draco doubts they’ll ever be friends.  Looking up from their game of chess simultaneously, all four of their eyebrows reach for the ceiling. 

Draco scowls.

Potter grins.  “Nice jumper.”


End file.
